


One of Many Sunday Mornings

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-25
Updated: 2005-08-25
Packaged: 2019-05-30 17:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15101237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: A lazy sunday morning. Short, Sam POV.





	One of Many Sunday Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Title: One of Many Sunday Mornings  
Author: Marie-Claude Danis   
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/westwing   
ARCHIVE: Sure, just ask first.   
FEEDBACK: Like music to my ears.   
PAIRING: Josh/Sam   
Rating: CHILD   
SUMMARY: A lazy sunday morning. Short, Sam POV. 

* * *

**One of Many Sunday Mornings by Marie-Claude Danis**

  
I woke up like I rarely did: with no alarm clock, no wake-up call, no insistent shake of my shoulder. This time, I woke up on my own accord, late morning tugging at my senses until my eyes fluttered open to a brightly lit ceiling. I watched for a moment the shadows of the curtains dancing across it, then closed my eyes again, smiling contentedly at nothing.

Ah, Sundays.

I had spent the previous day at the office, we both had - but today, today we didn't have anywhere to be. We had absolutely no intention of leaving the apartment at all until tomorrow morning, when duty would call upon us once again. But right now, that seemed like ages away.

The back of my hand brushed against his thigh, the hair tickling my wrist. Josh was warm and asleep; I could hear his laboured breathing next to me, slow and regular. Comforting, I always thought.

I considered getting up and fetching the papers that piled up everyday at the stoop of Josh's door, but the cotton of the sheets was too warm, the breeze from the window too fresh, the shadows on the ceiling too bright, the bedroom around us too silent. My foot dangled hesitantly to the hardwood floor, then retreated back into the folds of linen.

Later.

Later would be good.

END  



End file.
